Trust you too, forever reign
on my thirsty soul, smother
figurative demise searching me.

What I long for longs for me
to splinter into longish utterances
on sea’s lips at beach in my blue hijab,

I covered my eyes from gray Pigeons
who don’t understand solitude,
with their round intuitive eyes

they mocked the wind and me:
I don’t know what to do
always have sought you.

Miss you. Perhaps that which
is near is as murky as a thousand
fractured nights, just close my eyes

like blackened ragged mountains,
in patches of dirt silk scrunched
in an Afghan poem. Be your moon.

Nothing else makes much sense.
Ibadah and poetry are my compass,
in them I rinse my face from erasing.

What I want to say, I don’t but
I will try over Turkish coffee in
grounds, they will rewrite my words.